“We can screw these wires so tight she won’t give a particle,” shouted Tom. “Good for you, Harry!”
The idea was a good one, for since absolute rigidity of the long planes is imperative, it follows that the trussing and bracing by wire must be perfectly tight—tighter than any pair of hands can draw it. It was a particularly happy notion in this case, as it permitted of the glider’s being easily taken apart.
Several of the boys now got between the two planes, being careful not to step on the ribs, and began trussing. They wired each section separately, stretching a wire from each corner to the diagonally opposite corner,—that is, from the lower end of the back stanchion to the upper end of the next forward stanchion, and so on.
“Reminds you of that game you play with string,—cat in the cradle—doesn’t it?” said Matthew. That was as near as he dared approach to a joke.
“Yes, dearie,” said Mac.
They had to be careful that no wires should span the open space to be occupied by the passenger. As each wire was fixed in place, it was tightened by turning the little bicycle-spoke socket, and it was a never failing delight to the boys to spring these wires and listen with satisfaction to the long vibration which told how tightly they pulled the frame together and held it rigid.
When the trussing was finished, Mac stepped into the operator’s place, grasped the cross-bars, and lifted the machine. It tilted to one side, then to the other, but did not sag.
“A couple of you hold up the ends,” said Mac, “while I hang in the middle, and see if it holds stiff.”
Two boys did so, but the long frame did not give, nor was there any sound of straining.
“She’s what G. Lord would call a James Dandy,” said Tom.